


offer me that deathless death

by song_of_staying



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas, The Gadfly - Ethel Lilian Voynich
Genre: Crossover, Dantes ex Machina, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7314400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_of_staying/pseuds/song_of_staying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Count saves the Gadfly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	offer me that deathless death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



The evening before the execution, the Count bought seven fine stallions. His invention wouldn’t be perfected for months yet, and two of the stallions did not survive the impact of the false bullet. It was good enough odds, he thought, for the mysterious son of an old enemy.

He had had a plan for convincing the squad to deflect their bullets, but it was unnecessary - the boy bought their reluctance with an easy joke and eyes brighter than the morning sunlight. The count aimed for his breastbone, and struck true. The paralysis was immediate, and complete, and the Count did not know if he would wake, would not know it until after the excavation.

When the boy did wake, he was immobile, but tears ran down his face. The Count caressed his hair, and sat to read him Divina Commedia - starting, as he preferred to, from Purgatory.

* * *

The boy was still too weak to speak, but his eyes lit up when the Count sat on his bedside. He listened intently to the Count’s voice, and he smiled easily at the sallies in Dekameron. The Count judged that he was aware enough to make his choice.

“Montanelli is dead,” the Count said, in a voice as hard as granite. “He died of grief.”

The boy jerked with shock, an inarticulate sound escaped his throat.

“You live because I decided that you should. If you still wish to die, as you had told him, you can refuse the water I give you, you can turn away when I come to feed you. I have given you enough laudanum to ease the worst of your suffering - if you deny your healing, I can give you more, and you will slip into a painless, eternal sleep. But I would prefer it if you didn’t throw your life away for a man who was not worthy of your devotion.”

Tears flowed down the boy’s cheeks, and the Count left him, to weather the first shock of grief in private. There was nothing more vulnerable than a man who could not lift his arms to cover his face.

When he returned, the boy was still trembling, but his cheeks were dry. The Count offered him honeyed milk, pressing the flask to the chapped lips. He felt a giddy relief when he saw it swallowed.

* * *

“Why did you save me?” The ill boy spoke in careful, measured drawls, but there was no affectation behind it.

“Your father - I knew him of old, and he heard I had returned to these shores. He came to my ship in a hapless disguise, and he knelt and begged me to save you.”

“Why.” He took a breath. “Why did you agree?”

“I did not agree. I turned him away. He wept over my boots, but I knew he was lying - even as he confessed you are his son, he was not telling me something crucial. I called my staff to have him thrown off-board - knowing Luigi would take a special pleasure in manhandling a disgraced cardinal - but he finally told me of your offer, and his refusal to leave with you.”

The boy said nothing, but gripped the edge of his sheets with his good hand.

“I despise the cowardice of old men,” the Count said, choosing his words with care. “He wanted you saved, but wasn’t willing to sacrifice his own comfort for it. He spoke of damnation, but he had committed a worse sin when he lay with your mother. It was only that he had grown timid in his old age, and too concerned with entry into heaven now that he stood closer to its gates.”

There was denial on the boy’s lips, but he was silent.

“But you,” the Count continued, “you inherited none of his cowardice, nor his weakness. I knew your offer was true, and pure, but the offers made in dungeons can be reconsidered under the sunlight.” He touched the boy’s brow, as he had when it was uncertain whether he would wake. “I am glad that you did.”

“His d-death.” The boy seemed unable to keep his voice level. “Please. Did it redeem him in your eyes?”

Surprised, the Count shrugged.

“I wasn’t the one he sinned against. Do you think he was redeemed?”

“I n-n-never thought he w-was fa-fallen.” He rubbed his face with quick embarrassment. “I w-w-wish he’d lived, and f-forgotten me.”

“I do think he redeemed himself,” the Count said, quickly and not entirely truthfully. But when the boy’s eyes glowed, he knew it was the right response. “I think he loved you as much as he could.”

“Th-thank you, Comte.” The boy breathed. “Thank you for my life.”

* * *

“Should I call you Montanelli? The name is yours now, to claim or to throw away.”

He shook his head, weakly. “I cannot claim it when it wasn’t f-freely given.”

The Count knew that he _could_ , and rather thought that he should, as a final jab to his father’s hypocrisy. But the boy had no thirst for revenge, except perhaps against God.

“I shall call you the Gadfly, then,” he suggested, resuming the steady rhythm of stroking the matted locks, arranged carefully on the pillow like an aureole.

After a silence, the boy said, in a voice soft and flat, “What is a c-crushed fly? N-nothing but a stain on your table cloth.” He smiled, with nothing of his usual warmth. “Or rather, on your bedsheet.”

The Count’s hand, entangled in a lock, gripped harshly, pulled the head back against the pillows. The boy inhaled in shock, and looked away.

“Nothing is more precious to me, now, than time,” the Count told him. “I would not waste it tending to a stain.”.

The boy was biting his lip, pale with shame.

“F-fo-forgive me, Comte. You have shown me n-nothing but k-kindness.”

The Count released him, regretting his own fervour. The boy should heal in his own time. But the boy took the Count’s hand, and kissed it.

“I can call you Rivarez,” he said, to show his forgiveness.

“W-would you please call me Arthur?” He breathed deeply, carefully. “I am tired of b-being anyone else.”

* * *

Arthur could walk now, an odd lopsided gait. The Count saw the pain curl his fine lips, stayed aware of each small wince and gasp. He would not cheapen the boy’s courage by commanding him back to bed. He knew it would be obeyed.

“Who is Gemma?” he asked instead, and motioned for him to sit in the armchair opposite the Count’s own. Arthur sat but stayed silent.

“You called to your Padre when you were in pain, but you called to Gemma when the pain was eased.”

“I love her,” Arthur said. “I have always loved her.”

“And she loves you?”

“I don’t know. I know she must gr-grieve for me.”

There was no reproach in his voice, but the Count no longer wished others to be hurt by his acts of justice.

“Would you have her know you are not dead?”

Slowly, Arthur shook his head. “I would not inflict myself upon her for a third time.”

It was wrong that Arthur should see himself as a malaise, a danger to the innocent. Yet there was no bitterness in his voice when he sat and asked,

“Comte, would you read to me again? I should like to hear more of the Metamorphoses.”

* * *

The limp had not improved, but the Count learned that it had been the same before Arthur’s imprisonment.

“I was already crippled,” he drawled, watching the Count over the rim of his wineglass. “Did the Padre not mention it, while he was begging for my life?”

“He mentioned nothing but your eyes and your insanity.”

Arthur snorted. “I was never insane, only desperate. Insanity would have been more comforting.”

The Count shrugged. “It is not as comforting as it would seem,” he said. “Even a madman remembers injustice.”

He did not miss Arthur’s curious look.

“You are my respected guest,” he Count said, “you may ask me questions, if you wish.”

“I am your most humble servant,” Arthur said, and half-bowed in his chair. “I would never forget myself enough to pry. But if you _wish_ to tell me of your life, I will accept the gift of your confidence, and carry your secret to my grave… T-t-to whatever g-grave will f-finally hold me.”

The Count laughed, and obliged him.

* * *

Marseilles was dirty and full of life, and Arthur was quiet when they disembarked. He had healed beautifully, and it was time for him to leave. The Count did not bring it up until the morning, perhaps unwilling to disturbing their last night of companionship.

He found them an alleyway that was dirty but deserted, and handed the boy a well-stocked purse.

“This will buy you a ship to anywhere you wish to go - if you wish to remain unrecognised, I would suggest you leave the continent. There is more there besides. You must find a trader who will recognise the worth of these jewels, you can easily fund your revolution from overseas.

“The revolution took my life twice over,” Arthur drawled. “I will not easily give it anything more.”

He sounded oddly flat, and vicious, as though the gentle boy the Count had come to know had hidden away.

“You could live a life of careful leisure, then,” the Count suggested, perhaps a little awkwardly.

“Thank you.” Arthur held the purse with stiff fingers. “Comte.”

To the Count’s chagrin, Arthur lowered himself to his knees. His posture was asymmetric and stiff, and it was clear the position caused him a great deal of pain.

“Comte. Will you let me. Will you let me stay with you?”

The Count paled. There was a despair in the boy’s voice, as there had been when they had talked about Montanelli’s betrayal.

He made himself look away. “You do not need me, my boy. You will do fine in the world, as you’d always had.”

“I b-beg you. N-nobody has c-cared for me as you had.”

“No!” The Count strengthened his heart, and said, in the coldest voice he had. “It seems I was wrong about you - you inherited your father’s weakness, too timid to leave the place where you are comfortable.”

He turned around and strode away, leaving Arthur kneeling in the mud.

* * *

The man standing on the porch of his villa had sun-darkened skin, and the eyes the colour of the calm evening sky. He was wearing a fine vest that showed his chest - there was a white circular scar in the very centre of it.

“Comte,” he said. “I have followed you since Montevideo.”

“And so you’ve caught me,” the Count said, and bowed slightly.

Arthur did not return it.

“Might we talk?”

The Count led him to a parlour. He dismissed the servants, and watched his guest. It had not even been a year since their unhappy parting, but he quietly catalogued every change on Arthur’s body. There was a healed cut above his eye, and his hands seemed stronger, calmer.

He said nothing, so the Count asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Arthur shook his head. “You have done everything. I would not ask anything of you. B-but - “ he breathed. “But I have come to offer myself, my loyalty and companionship, for as long as you would have me. I w-will leave forever, if you tell me again.”

The Count bowed his head. Like his enemy, he had succumbed to the cowardice of old men, in rejecting this gift of love, however temporary. Arthur would leave, as Haydée had, when he found a brighter happiness. But that was the right of the young and brilliant.

“I will not reject you again,” he said, and held out a hand. “Forgive me. And welcome home.”

Arthur kissed his hand, and smiled. The Count smiled back. He would bask in the brilliance as long as he was able.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Take Me To Church, which egelantier and I loved before it was cool. <3


End file.
